


The year is 1976

by Chrissy24601, spiderfire



Series: Les Mis / Civil rights [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1970s, Alternate Universe - Historical, Big Bang Challenge, Canon-Typical Violence, Female Character of Color, Gen, Les Mis Across History, Male Character of Color, Many Many OCs, Montreuil-sur-Mer, POV Multiple, Period-Typical Sexism, chromatic big bang, race bent characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-06
Updated: 2016-06-06
Packaged: 2018-06-10 13:02:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 9,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6957565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chrissy24601/pseuds/Chrissy24601, https://archiveofourown.org/users/spiderfire/pseuds/spiderfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The year is 1976 and Madeleine has been in Montrey-by-the-Sea for four years.  One day, a man accidentally drives his car into the front of a popular pizza place.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Chrissy-24601 drew this amazing illustration. It also appears in chapter 13.
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> (Note: Don't be scared off by the number of chapters - many are quite short!)

The year is 1976. 

The year is 1976. It is a presidential election year. Republican Gerald Ford holds the office of President, but he was never elected. He had been appointed by the Senate to replace Spiro Agnew as Vice President. When Richard Nixon resigned, Ford ascended to the presidency. Ford is so unpopular among his own party that he will not even win the Republican primary. 

The year is 1976. The United Nations begins discussions about declaring a year to be the “Year of the Child.” A year of the child? Why do we need a year for children? Every god-damned day is a year for children. Nothing good comes from focusing too much on children. Brown v. Board of Education, then PARC and just last year Mills. Every day we take resources from good people and give them to kids that will never amount to much. 

The year is 1976. The last of the moon landings happened four years before, but the imagination of the world turns to a new program: the space shuttle. It looks and flies like an airplane and so it seems the era of cheap space travel, of vacations on the moon, can’t possibly be far away. In retrospect, we all know what became of that dream. 

The year is 1976 and the first Happy Meal is served at McDonalds. A hamburger, fries, a drink, a cheap plastic toy all packaged in a cardboard box would become one of the most successful marketing techniques in history. 

The year is 1976. Four years ago, a 7.3 magnitude earthquake in Sacramento triggered a fire at FBI’s fingerprint warehouse. Most of the original fingerprint cards for the southwest were stored there. An unknown number of cards were lost. Duplicates exist in other places, of course, but the Bureau is understaffed. Two clerks come to work each day and work long hours to curate the fingerprints. They cross check lists from the facilities in Madison, Topeka and D.C. They figure out what was lost and what can be replaced. Despite their hard work, they can barely keep up with the new cards that arrive, much less make much progress on the backlog. 

The year is 1976. Five years ago, Montrey-by-the-Sea was a city that had lost its way. The textile factory that had employed a generation of workers went bankrupt in the early sixties. In the years that followed, the business owners and executives, anyone with white skin and money, moved away. Some went to Lexington Hills and others Los Gatos and still more went further afield. Just the Mexicans and blacks were left. A generation ne’er do-wells grew up in the decaying town where the economy dwindled to liquor stores and laundromats. 

The year is 1976 and four years ago, word filtered through the city that someone was buying the old factory. What bat-shit crazy would do that, they asked? But then came the jobs. First it was construction workers to refurb the interior and clerical workers to handle the permits and payroll. Hope began to flicker among the residents. Would there be more jobs? Or was this just one more urban blight campaign? After months of waiting, there was an announcement. _Seeking men and women of good moral fiber to work at Sandalphon Industries,_ the announcement read. _Must be willing to work hard and participate in the job training program. Sandalphon industries does not discriminate based on race, color, religion, sex, or national origin. Veterans are encouraged to apply._ Good moral fiber? What did that mean? Job training? But there were jobs and the Sandalphon found itself buried in applications. The jobs paid good money and soon the factory was turning away applicants. For the first time in years, the city had reason to hope. 

The year is 1976 and the owner of the factory is a man who calls himself Madeleine. He lives in a tiny apartment over a pizza place called Sweet Tomato. Each morning, he walks the half mile to the factory in a suit that does not quite fit. It pulls across the shoulders and hangs loose on his hips. Each day when he leaves the house, he has a pocket full of small bills and coins. On his way, he gives something to each panhandler and child he passes. The children call him Yoyo Malena and they chase him down the street, laughing and shouting to each other in Spanglish. 

The year is 1976 and things are looking up in Montray. The new factory has brought jobs and money and hope. Following the money, came other businesses: a McDonalds, a brand new A&P, and a Marshalls. The schools got a new coat of paint and more teachers. An intensive care unit in the hospital got completely renovated, thanks to an anonymous gift to Catholic Charities. It is a good time. 

And so, here we are, in the late afternoon on a Saturday in March, about a month before Easter. Eleanor and Damien Morin have brought their eight year old daughter into the Sweet Tomato for a quick lunch before her piano recital. Damien, a patent lawyer who works for the newly incorporated Apple Computers, is dressed in a suit and his wife is wearing a pale blue dress that contrasts in a startling way with her dark skin. She likes the effect and Damien, who likes it when she is happy, encourages her to wear the dress often. Their daughter, Julie, is wearing a pink taffetta Easter dress which is scratchy, and freshly braided cornrows that are too tight.


	2. Damien Morin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Stop fidgeting,” Eleanor said to Julie as Julie wiggled around on her seat. “Sit tall, like a lady.” 

Damien watched as Julie tried, she really did. She folded her hands in her lap and sat with her spine straight, her small feet dangling inches above the floor. “Good,” Eleanor said. But no sooner had Eleanor said that than Julie slumped and twisted around to look at another child in the next booth over. 

Eleanor started to reprimand Julie, but Damien put his hand on Eleanor’s knee. “Let it go,” he said softly. “This is hard for her. She’s nervous.” 

“That’s no excuse for bad manners,” Eleanor replied. 

Julie twisted back to face her parents. “Can I go over to Bridget’s house?” Julie asked. 

“You have your recital.” 

“After that? Can I go over?”

Eleanor shook her head. “I don’t like that Bridget,” she said. “She’s a bad influence.” 

Julie slouched in her seat, a frown on her face. 

Eleanor glared at her daughter. “Sit up,” she said. Damien looked at Eleanor. He opened his mouth but then shut it when she shot him a sharp glance. “Don’t you dare,” she said. “You aren’t around when she comes home from school. You don’t know.” 

“But…” Damien said. 

Eleanor said, “No. And that’s final.”

They sat in unhappy silence for 30 seconds before the waitress came over with a stack of plates and the pizza on a metal stand. The waitress’s name tag said “LIZ” and she was wearing the same red polyester dress the other three waitresses were wearing. Her hair was loose, frizzed up into a ‘fro that quadrupled the size of her head. “Here you go,” she said, setting the pizza in the middle of the table and putting a plate in front of each of them. The pizza was cheese with pepperoni on half of it. “Do you need any drinks?” 

The bell on the restaurant’s door rang out and Damien looked up as three young women came in. One of the women he knew. Her name was Alice and she had been babysitting for Julie since Julie was a baby. 

The waitress glanced at the door, and frowned. She looked back at the table and tapped her pencil against her pad. Eleanor said, “Damien, wake up. Do you want something to drink?” 

Damien blinked and turned back to the waitress. “Uh. A Coke, I guess.” 

“Can I have a Coke too?” Julie asked. 

Eleanor glared at her daughter. “You will have milk, young lady. Coke is not good for growing.” 

The waitress looked down at the pad and read, “A milk, a Coke and a cup of coffee. Be right back.” 

Julie reached for the pizza, but her mother swatted at her hand, “It’s hot. Let it cool.” 

Julie slumped back in her seat. “I like it hot,” she said. 

Eleanor ignored her and said to Damien. “Is that Alice?” 

“Yes.” 

“Think we can ask her to babysit on Friday night?” 

“Now?” Damien asked. 

“Why not?”

“I guess,” Damien said. He looked right at Alice, waiting to catch her eye. When she saw him, her smile lit up and she came over, trailed by the two other women she came in with. All three were colored girls, though one was very pale, quite lovely in fact, Damien thought. 

Eleanor slid a slice of pizza onto a plate. She held the plate out to her daughter. “Eat neatly,” she reminded Julie. Julie took the plate and put it down in front of her. She was about to pick it up when Eleanor said, “Put the napkin on your lap. And use a fork.” 

“Hi Mr. Morin,” Alice said cheerfully. “Hi Mrs. Morin. Hi Julie.” 

Julie was biting her tongue as she tried to saw off a piece of pizza with the side of her fork. She did not look up. 

“Uh, hi Alice,” Damien said, tearing his eyes away from the lovely one. “Who are your friends?” 

His eyes were drawn back to the fair skinned woman. She had a mane of dark hair that fell around her shoulders. 

“Oh!” Alice said. “This is Joan. She went to high school with me. And this is Fantine. She works with us at the factory.” 

“Fantine,” Damien said softly. He found himself wondering what her hair felt like, if she’d let him touch it. Eleanor did not like it when he touched her hair.

Eleanor kicked him under the table. 

“What?” Damien said, looking at Eleanor. Daggers were practically flying out of her eyes. He looked back at Alice. “Oh, I, uh, wanted to ask if you could babysit Friday night.” 

Alice frowned. “Friday…uh…” 

“Richard,” the girl Alice introduced as Joan prompted. 

“Oh,” Alice said. “Sorry, I have a date.”

“I could do it,” Joan offered. 

“Could you?” Damien Morin asked. 

“I could,” Joan said with a smile. Damien looked from Joan to the other girl, Fantine, but then, remembering Eleanor’s glare, he looked away. Joan crouched down next to Julie. “My name is Joan,” Joan offered to Julie. “Would it be okay if I came and played with you?” 

Julie, who had been picking the cheese off her pizza with a fork looked wildly from Joan to her mother. Eleanor was not looking at her. Eleanor’s icy eyes were glued on Damien. And Damien smiled weakly back. “Uh,” Julie said. “I guess.”

“What’s your name?” Joan asked. 

“Julie,” she replied. 

“Well, I’ll see you Friday night,” Joan said. “What time, Mr. Morin?” 

Damien looked at the table. Maybe if he took Eleanor out for a drink before the show… He looked back at Joan. He did not allow himself to look at Fantine. “How about 6:30?” he said. 

“Show’s not to eight,” Eleanor said under her breath. 

“Great!” Joan said at the same time. “See you then. Alice can give me the address.” Standing up, Joan glanced around the restaurant and then looked at Fantine and Alice, “Hey, how about that table over there?”


	3. Joan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Joan gestured at a table that one of the waitresses had just wiped off and the three girls wormed over and sat down. Joan leaned across the table, “Did you see the way he looked at you Fantine?” she hissed with delight. “You should have taken this job.” 

Fantine picked up the menu and did not answer. 

Alice, who was seated with her back to the Morins, made a gagging sound. “Please,” Alice said. “He’s old.”

Joan glanced at the Morins and sprawled back in her seat. “But rich, right? He’s a lawyer.” 

Alice shrugged. 

Joan stretched her legs out under the table. “So,” she said. “Good gig?” 

Alice shrugged. “The pay is good. He tips.” 

“Perks?” 

“For the love of god, Joan. Cut it out. He doesn’t want you anyway. He wants Fantine.” 

Fantine kept her eyes down and studied the menu. Joan looked at her. She had been trying to be nice when she invited Fantine out to lunch before their shift. Fantine always seemed nice, though sad. “So, how is that kid?” Joan asked Alice.

“Julie?” Alice said. “She’s okay. Mrs. Morin, though, is a monster.” 

Joan laughed. “I guess that’s why his eyes wander.” 

“What kind of pizza do you like, Fantine?” 

Fantine put down the menu. “Cheese,” she said. “Or mushroom and pepper.” 

“How about pepperoni?” 

Fantine shook her head. 

“Alright then,” Joan said. “No pepperoni. Alice, are you okay with mushrooms and peppers?” 

Alice wrinkled her nose. “Ugh,” she said. “No veggies.” 

“How about just cheese then?” 

“Only if they just put on a tiny bit of sauce,” Alice replied. 

“Sauce is the whole point of this place,” Joan said. “Sweet Tomato?” 

“I don’t like sauce,” Alice said. 

“Fantine? Is that okay? A dry cheese pizza?” 

Fantine bobbed her head. “Sure.” 

“Then let’s get that,” Joan said. She leaned back in her seat and looked at Alice. “So…” she said “Richard. What are you all doing?” 

Alice grinned. “Going to the movies,” she said. “We are going to see _Lucky Lady_.” 

“I heard that’s good,” Joan said. 

Alice shrugged. “I wasn’t planning on watching it.” 

Joan feigned shock. “Alice!” she said. 

The waitress came up. A woman, about their age, with a name tag that said AMY on it. “What are you Alicing about?” Amy the waitress said. 

Joan rolled her eyes and Alice grinned at Amy. “Hey Amy.” 

“Hey Alice. Jone. Haven’t seen you in a while. And who’s this?” 

“This is Fantine,” Alice said. “She works with us at the factory.” 

“Lucky,” Amy said. 

“I have a date with Richard on Friday” Alice said. “We are going to the movies.” 

Joan glanced at Fantine. Fantine was watching, her eyes flicking from one to the other, but she said nothing. It must be hard for her, Joan thought, not knowing anyone. Joan had lived in Montray her whole life. She had gone to high school with Alice and Amy Little and that other waitress - Liz Carter - who was currently over at the cash register. What must it be like to know no one?

“Ah, the movies,” Amy said with a wink. 

“Something like that,” Joan replied, gesturing below the table.

“So what can I get you for lunch?” Amy asked. 

Joan stage whispered, “Richard, on a platter.” 

Alice grinned, and her cheeks turned pink but then she nodded towards Mr. Morin. “Fantine, here, she’d like Mr. Morin.” 

“I would not!” Fantine protested. 

Amy followed Alice’s glance across the room and then turned back. “You guys want coke?” she asked. 

Joan nodded. “Sure. And a cheese pizza with just a tiny bit of sauce?” 

Amy wrote the order in her book. “It’ll be about fifteen minutes.” 

“We got an hour before we have to be at the factory.”

“I’ll tell the boys in the kitchen to hurry up.” 

“Thanks,” Joan said with a grin. 

Amy turned to leave but a sparkle caught Joan’s eye and she reached out and put her hand on Amy’s arm. Amy turned back. “What?”

“What’s this?” Joan asked, pointing at her hand. 

Amy’s face lit up. “Oh!” she said. “Jasper. He asked. I said yes!” 

“No way!” Alice squeaked. “Let’s see!” 

Amy obligingly held out her hand, showing off the band with the glittering stone. 

“Is it real?” Alice asked. 

“Yes!” Amy said. 

“So,” Joan started to ask, “When is the date?” but Amy turned away, glancing back at the counter. 

“Sorry,” Amy said. “I have to get back to work.”


	4. Amy Little

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Amy hustled back to the counter and tore off the top page of her pad. She clipped it onto the queue and turned around. Eliza Tingle, an older woman who had been working as a waitress at the restaurant for years, was drying glasses. Liz Carter was rolling silverware into napkins. Amy picked up a glass as Eliza put it down and walked over to the soda fountain. 

“What was that about?” Liz asked. 

Amy scooped some ice into the glass. “What?” 

Liz looked in the direction of the table where Joan, Alice and the new girl, Fantine, were sitting. 

Amy shrugged as she took the nozzle and squeezed it. “Some things never change.”

“You went to school with her, didn’t you?” Eliza asked. 

Amy nodded. “We both did,” Liz said. “She was a senior when I was a sophomore and Amy was a freshman.” 

“She’s a creep,” Amy said. 

“She’s a bully,” Liz explained to Eliza. “She’d spread stories about the underclassmen girls sleeping with the prepubescent ninth grade boys.”

“All the while, she was the one sleeping around.”

“Good moral fiber, my foot. Sandalphon is so full of it.” 

Amy set the filled glass on the counter and picked up another empty glass. As she scooped ice into it, she said, “You’re just bitter because they didn’t hire you.” 

Liz frowned, but she did not disagree. 

“Plus, how could they know?” Amy said. 

“She’s still doing it.” Liz said. 

“How do you know?” Amy asked

“Did you see the way that Mr. Morin was looking at her? She babysits their kid!”

“Sleeping with the babysitter is nothing new,” Eliza said, her words bitter. 

Amy shook her head. “He was not looking at Alice,” Amy said. “He was looking at that other one sitting with Alice and Joan. The new girl.” 

Liz looked up, her eyes going from the Morin’s table to the girls. Mr. Morin was stealing a glance at the fair skinned woman sitting next to Joan. The woman’s hair was gorgeous, falling down her back in loose curls. No wonder he was looking. “What’s her name?” she asked. 

Alice finished filling the third glass. “I think Alice said her name was Fan…something. Fantine?” She put the three glasses on a tray and picked it up.


	5. Liz Carter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Liz Carter gathered up the pile of silverware she had rolled into napkins and nestled them into a basket. She dropped one on the floor, and as she bent over to pick it up, she bumped Eliza Tingle. 

The glass that Eliza was drying slipped from her fingers. 

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph!” Eliza exclaimed. 

Liz was halfway up, the silverware roll in her hand, and the glass fell into the crook of her arm. “What!” she said in surprise. 

“Did you see that?” Eliza said. 

Liz laughed and held out the glass. “Oh…” she gasped. “That was lucky.” 

Eliza took the glass from Liz. Liz put the roll of silverware in the basket and set the basket to the side. The bell on the door chimed again and they looked up. Mister Madeleine held the door for an older woman. They both knew Mr. Madeleine, of course. He lived in the apartment over the restaurant, but he was also the owner Sandalphon Industries. 

The woman marched right up to the counter with Madeleine trailing behind. She was wearing a mauve skirt suit with a matching hat perched on her grey hair. A string of pearls, too perfect to be real, encircled her throat. Liz stepped up to the cash register. “Can I help you, Mam?” she asked. 

“I’d like three large cheese pizzas,” she said. 

“To go?” Liz asked. 

The woman nodded. 

Madeleine, who stood a head taller than the woman, said from behind her. “Make it six,” he said. 

The woman looked at him and frowned, but he just smiled back. “Six, then,” she said. “And do you have soda in those big bottles?” 

Liz looked up from the pad that she was writing on. “What, the two liter bottles?” 

“Is that what they are called?” 

“The big ones,” Liz said. “Not like those?” She waved at a refrigerator case with a glass front. Rows of 12 ounce Coke bottles were visible through the window.” 

“No,” the woman said. “The big ones.” 

Liz shook her head. “No, but the A&P does. It’s just down the street.” She pulled off the top sheet of her pad and put it on the order queue. “It will be about twenty minutes. Do you want to pay now?” 

Madeleine pulled out a money clip from a pocket inside his coat. “How much is it?” he asked. 

Liz hit the keys on the calculator. “With tax, it will be twenty-one dollars and seventy-six cents.”

Madeleine peeled a twenty and a ten off his wad and handed it over. “Keep the change,” he said.

“Thank you,” Liz said with a smile. 

Madeleine turned to the woman. “George could get the sodas while you wait, Heather.” 

“That’s a good idea,” she said. “He’s just out in the car listening to music anyway.” 

“Want me to ask him?” Madeleine asked. 

“Sure,” she said. “I’ll just wait here.” 

Liz looked at the woman again. “If you want to sit down,” she offered, pointing at an empty table in the rear of the store. “I can get you a glass of water.” 

“Aren’t you a dear?” the woman said. 

Liz turned around and picked up another glass from where Eliza was still drying. “Mister Madeleine just ordered six pizzas,” she said _sotto voce_. “And left a nine dollar tip!” 

Eliza nodded. “There’s an Easter basket filling party over at St. Martha’s. They are making baskets for families who, you know. Heather Aster,” she nodded at the woman who was sitting at the back table, “is organizing it.” 

“Oh,” Liz said, filling the glass with ice and water. “Do you go to church there, or something.” 

Eliza shrugged. “My whole life.” 

“Huh,” Liz said. “My parents went for Christmas, but that was about it. They liked the singing. It’s been years since I’ve been.” She picked up the filled glass and carried it over to Heather Aster. “Here you go,” she said.


	6. Heather Aster

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heather Aster leaned back in her chair and looked around the restaurant. One eatery or another had been in this storefront for as long as she could remember. Back when she was a girl, it had been a lunch counter for the white workers who worked at the textile factories. Then, the Second World War had happened. The fare changed but the clientele was still the textile workers. In those days the factory made army uniforms and canvas for the Conestoga trucks. The counter had been filled with white women in trousers. And then came the troubled years after the war. The space had become a soda fountain. A riot had broken out when three colored men had had the audacity to sit next to the white customers. Her George had been one of those men. 

She had been so mad at him. She had been home with George Jr., who was sick with a fever and George had gone and gotten himself beat up and arrested. But she was also proud. George was a good man.

After that, it had been briefly an ice cream parlor, then a fish and chips place. During the lean years of a decade ago, it had been empty for a while, just a broken plate glass window, sometimes boarded over with plywood. The pizza place had moved in three years ago. 

A life-long resident of Montray, as she looked around the room, she saw many faces that were familiar. Eliza, the oldest of the waitresses behind the counter, went to St. Martha’s. She did not know any of the three young women sitting together, but she was pretty sure that she recognized the face of one of them, the one who was putting up a stink when the waitress came over with the wrong order. She stared at the girl, but then she got it. The girl was the spittin’ image of a girl George Jr dated all those years ago. She smiled, remembering her. That girl had been a picky one, too. When she came over for dinner, yak, yak yak. The breading on the chicken had been too hard, too thick, too brown. The potatoes had been too dry. If it wasn’t one thing it was another. She was not sorry when her George had dumped that girl. 

She heard the sound of breaking glass and she looked up in time to see Eliza’s head disappear below the counter, a curse stifled on her lips. One of the other waitresses said, “Oh dear. I’ll fetch the broom.” 

“Thanks,” Eliza replied. 

The patrons went back to their meal and Heather went back to people watching. She knew Damien Morin, of course. He was a lawyer who had done some pro bono work with the church. Word on the street was that he was thinking of running for office. Interesting, she had not known he had a daughter. He was eating his pizza mechanically, staring across the cafe at the group of three young women sitting together. Tsk tsk, Heather thought. Damien was a nice guy, he did good work, but leering at women was not going to be good for him in the long run. 

The little girl squirmed in her seat, twisting around to look over the back of the booth, then she turned back around and picked up her fork and knife. The little girl sawed at the pizza under her mother’s watchful eyes and, once she got a piece loose, she put down her knife, switched hands with her fork, stabbed it and brought it to her mouth. She switched her hands back and picked up the knife and started sawing again. On the third mouthful, the inevitable happened. The girl’s knife slipped and a blob of pizza tore loose. The cheese flew off the plate and the crust landed sauce side down on her lap. The napkin that had been across her legs was now in a pile on the floor, displaced by all that wiggling. 

“Julie!” her mother reprimanded. 

Julie looked away, her eyes filling with tears. “I’m sorry mama!” she said as she picked up the pizza with her fingers. A drop of sauce fell from the pizza and landed on her chest. 

“Stop!” her mother exclaimed. “God damn, Damien,” she said. “Go get something to clean this up.” 

The whole room was staring at them, which is why, of everyone in the room, only Heather saw it coming. From her vantage point in the back of the restaurant, she could see the drama playing out and, beyond that, she could see out of the window onto the street. George had been parked in front of the store moments before, but he had left for the soda. 

The car was a blue station wagon, the kind with wood panels on the door. It was driving straight at the window. It was moving very fast. The driver seemed to be drooped over the wheel. The car was not stopping. The car was not stopping! 

The car plowed through the plate glass window and glass exploded everywhere. She had an instant to recognize the driver (Jake something, the real estate agent who had sold them their house) before the car slammed into her, barely slowed by the window and tables that it had tossed aside.


	7. Jake Jacobson

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jake Jacobson was driving to the office to return the key to the Lester place. He had had a showing. It had not gone well. The couple he was showing it too had been late, the woman had been dismissive of the remodeling details. The husband had yammered on and on about the news from spring training. What a waste of a Saturday morning! 

He rounded a corner. The car was going too fast. He tried to lift his foot and suddenly he couldn’t. His foot would not move. This had happened once before. His foot had simply become lead. The car had accelerated and and he could not stop it. He had steered it off the road, into a ditch. By the time the police had gotten there, he was fine. His head was spinning and blood was running down his face from a cut on his temple, but his foot had been normal. Eighteen stitches later, he had walked home. 

Now, it was happening again. His foot was pressing the accelerator. The car was going faster and faster. He tried to steer it, but his hands slipped from the wheel. His body was pressed back in the seat, thanks to the acceleration of the car. Ahead of the car, was a restaurant. He saw people inside it, eating. His hands did not respond. His feet were useless. Adrenaline pours through his body. He screamed. 

The car smashed into the window. Glass went everywhere. The car was still moving. A woman looked up from her pizza, almost comically slowly, and opened her mouth as the car slammed into her with a sickening thud. There was a man, standing with a napkin in his hand. The car hit him. Blood sprayed across the windshield. There was another thud as the car crashed into a table. Then there was tremendous bang as the car came to a sudden and final stop against the back wall of the restaurant. 

The world went black.


	8. Sgt. Ramsey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sgt. Ramsey was leaning in the window of George Aster’s car. George was stopped at a stop sign at the end of an alley. The alley connected Main Street to Central, and it was directly across the street from the A&P parking lot. 

Sgt. Ramsey was white, in his mid-twenties, and he had known Mr. Aster his whole life. Mr. Aster had taught his CCD class at St. Martha’s for three years back when he’d been in elementary school. He’d been the rather unconventional lay instructor of his confirmation class, who had invited the boys out to the soda fountain after class one night and had given them all condoms. 

But it was not just church. Mr. Aster was an avid Giants fan. “Did you read the story in the Chronicle yesterday?” Mr. Aster asked him. 

“Which one?” Sgt. Ramsey asked. 

“The one about getting to spring training?”

“No.” 

“Apparently D’Acquisto and Moffit raced Halicki and Montefusco. It’s a twelve hour drive to camp out in Arizona and they made it in eight.” 

“Let me guess. Moffit…” 

A tremendous crash interrupted Sgt. Ramsey. The sound of shattering glass, the shriek of tearing metal, the screams of distant people, ripped through the air. 

“What the hell!” George exclaimed. 

Ramsey turned and ran for his car which was parked along Central.

“Should I…” George called out after him.

“I’ll call it in,” Ramsey shouted as he slid into his car. Flipping on his lights and siren, he tore down the street. His tires squealed as he turned onto West, a street that paralleled the alley that George Aster had been parked on. When he got back over to Main Street, he looked left and then right. About half a block up, he saw it. 

The store front to Sweet Tomato had been shattered. There was a dozen or so people gathered around, helping each other from the wreckage with more people clustering around by the minute. “Dispatch,” he said into the radio. “This is 2781.” 

“2781, go ahead.” 

“There a car accident on the 700 block of Main Street. Looks like a car smashed into a storefront. There are multiple injuries.” 

“Roger 2781.” 

“2781 responding.” 

He pulled his car into a space, fifty feet from the front of the store and ran up the street. 

Standing in front of the store, his jaw dropped when he saw the carnage. A late model blue Dodge was right up the middle of the restaurant that used to be the Sweet Tomato. This storefront was one he had grown up in. It hadn’t been the Sweet Tomato then, but he had gone for ice creams here with his baseball team. He had taken his prom date here for a soda. The pizza place had been repainted, but the booths were the same, and the counter. 

Now, there was shattered glass and shards of wood everywhere. Chairs were tossed aside. The car was slammed against the back wall, its horn blaring. He stared, noting that the team’s favorite booth, back when he had been a kid, was under the car. 

The radio on his belt blared, “2781, squad car inbound. Fire and ambulance will be delayed at least ten minutes.” 

He shook his head and unhooked the radio from its holster. His training kicked in. “Roger, dispatch.” 

Looking around the room, he noted an older black woman had been tossed aside. Her eyes were open and staring, her head was twisted at an angle that was all wrong. People were screaming, calling for help. He looked at the car. 

First step - decide if the scene was still dangerous. The car, he supposed, constituted the primary source of danger. It was stopped. Sniffing the air, it did not seem to be leaking gasoline. Thank god for small mercies. Ignoring the chaos around him, he approached the car. 

His foot slipped and he looked down, expecting gasoline, but finding blood. A lake of blood, and a hand that extended out from under the car. Bile bubbled up in his mouth. Nothing in his training had prepared him for this carnage. Swallowing hard, he reached through the broken window of the driver’s door. A man was slumped over the wheel, causing the horn to blare. He pulled the man back in his seat. Abruptly the horn stopped. He could hear the screams and sobs and around him. The ironic lyrics of Paul Simon’s song, 50 ways to leave your lover, filtered into the air. 

The man in the car groaned and his eyes fluttered open. He, at least, was alive. 

Someone grabbed his shoulder. Ramsey jerked back and found himself facing a black woman in a pink dress. Her eyes were wide. “Officer,” she said. “Officer! You have to help me, I can’t find Damien.” 

He tried to pull away but the woman gripped his arm. “Please, mam,” he said. “I…” The woman did not seem to be injured. 

Her hands tightened on his arm, tears came to her eyes as she begged, “Officer, please! He just got up to get a new napkin. Julie got pizza sauce on her dress and…” Her hands loosened from his arm as she started to cry. He twisted his arm out of her grip and put an arm over her shoulder. “Please, mam. I am trying to…” 

He looked around, desperately, trying to find someone to help him out, but there was no one. No other cops had responded yet, though he did hear the wail of sirens in the distance. “What’s your name?” he asked her, looking back at her. 

“Eleanor,” she replied. “Morin,” she added. 

“Alright, Ms. Morin. I will…I will let you know if I find him. Please just let me do my work.”

She pulled away from him. “Yes, yes of course,” she said.


	9. Eleanor Morin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eleanor’s eyes fell on her daughter who was standing a few feet away, her lips trembling, trying not to cry. Great streaks of, what was that? Oh, god. She was covered in blood! 

Eleanor shrieked. It was a blood curdling sound, even over the racket of the room. “Oh, god! Julie!” She fell to her knees in front of her daughter and grabbed a napkin that had been dropped on the floor and started to furiously rub a spot on her dress. “Julie,” Eleanor said. “How could you?” 

And then Julie balled her hands up and started to sob. “Mama,” she said. “Mama.” 

Eleanor sat back on her heels and threw the napkin on the floor. “God damn it!” she said. “This dress cost a whole week of daddy’s salary and you gone and …” 

“Daddy,” whimpered Julie, looking at the car. 

“Where did he go?” Eleanor cried. 

Someone touched her on the shoulder and Eleanor looked up. Alice, the babysitter was standing there. “Ms. Morin,” Alice said. “Can I take Julie outside?” 

Panic hit Eleanor with a solid punch and she lost her breath. Julie was clinging to Alice, her little arms around the young woman’s waist. “No!” she said. “No, I have to find Damien,” she said. “Don’t take Julie…” 

“You come outside too,” Alice said. “Let the police do their thing.” 

“What, that kid?” 

“Ramsey’s a good man. He dated Joan’s big sister. Come on, Ms. Morin. Let’s go outside.”


	10. Alice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alice offered her hand to Eleanor, and Eleanor took it. Alice handed the older woman up and led her toward the gaping hole in the wall that the car had plowed through. The store’s door hung in its frame in twisted angles. 

Men pushed past, headed in as they picked their way out. An older black man shouted, “Heather! Heather where are you?” He was followed by several young cops and a tall man who must be in charge. “Ramsey,” the tall man demanded as he plowed in. “Clear the civilians out of here. Move!” 

They stood on the sidewalk. Alice had her arm around Eleanor and Julie clinging to her waist. Alice felt like she was floating out of her body. This can not be happening, she thought They were just having lunch before going to work. Joan came out of the building, gripping a blood-soaked napkin to her cheek. “Joan!” Alice called her. Joan looked blankly her way. Alice called her again. “Joan, over here,” she said. 

Joan came over. “Liz,” Alice said. “Do you see Liz? Or Amy? Or the new girl. What happened to the new girl?” 

Joan stared at the wreckage, saying nothing. 

Alice followed her gaze. That black man that had pushed past her was down on his knees, looking under the car. “Oh god!” he shouted. “There are people under here!”


	11. George Aster

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> George Aster was down on his hands and knees. Broken glass was cutting into his jeans. His hands were sticky. Where was Heather? He peered under the car. There were two people under there but he couldn’t tell if either of them was Heather. 

He sat back. There was a tall cop, a white guy, who seemed to be in charge. George had seen him around over the last few months, but he didn’t know his name. Word had it he was a transfer from up in the bay area. 

The cop was in plain clothes, with a gun in a shoulder holster that was plainly visible under his suit coat. The cop was trying to get a young woman to leave. “Detective,” George yelled. The cop looked at him. 

“Detective, there are people under here!” 

The cop came over and crouched down. Resting his hand against the car he peered underneath. “What do you want me to do?” the cop asked. 

“My wife, she might be under there!” 

“The ambulance is coming, sir. It has a Jaws of Life.” 

“But they are bleeding! We got to…” 

“Sir,” the cop said. 

From the other side of the car, came a woman’s scream. “Oh my god, she’s alive!”


	12. Eliza Tingle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eliza was kneeling on the other side of the car. A hand was sticking out. Amy’s hand. She recognized the ring, even though it was caked in blood. 

She closed her eyes and swallowed. God, that poor girl was just a child. Hesitantly, she reached out and closed her fingers around the unmoving fingers. 

The fingers twitched in her hand. She screamed. “Oh my god! She’s alive!” 

From the other side of the car, a man bellowed, “Please, detective, you have got to do something!” 

Then the man, an older black man, came sliding around the car. “Heather!” he said. “Heather, it’s going to be okay!” 

He looked at the hand that Eliza was holding and Eliza looked at him. “I’m sorry,” she said and the man staggered backwards against the wall, next to another woman, that pretty woman that Mr. Morin had been eying before, who was just standing there, trembling, watching everything with wide eyes. 

And then someone called out, “Is there anyone who can lift the car?”

Who was that? She looked up but he was on the other side of the car. Who could lift a car?

“See how the car is up on the edge of a bench? Someone could crawl under there and lift it on his back.” 

She recognized the voice. It was Mister Madeleine. 

“Five thousand dollars!” Madeleine said. 

A year’s salary. If only!

“Ten thousand!” Madeleine said. 

Who could lift a car?” she heard the pretty girl on the wall mutter.


	13. Fantine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fantine stood with her back against the wall, unable to move. Joan and Alice had gone outside with the little girl. They had not noticed that she had not followed.

The old man who had been calling for his wife stood next to her, tears streaming down his face. She reached out and took his hand. His hand was cold and sticky, but it was better than standing alone.

Standing near the front of the car was Mister Madeleine. She had seen him from time to time, walking along the catwalk that went over the factory floor.

On the other side was the detective.

“Twenty!” Mister Madeleine said.

Oh, if only she could do it. With twenty thousand dollars, she could get little Cosette back. They could have an apartment. She could have a part time job while Cosette was at school.

The police man was watching Mister Madeleine with a stony, unreadable expression. “It’s not the willingness they lack,” he said. “It is the strength. It would take a terribly strong man to lift a car.”

Mister Madeleine looked away from the police officer, at the floor.

“Mister Madeleine,” said the police officer. Mister Madeleine looked up. “I have only known one man capable of what you suggest.”

Mister Madeleine swayed. He put his hand against the wall to steady himself.

“It was back when I was a prison guard. The man was a prisoner. In San Quentin.” The look on the detective’s face as he spoke was grim, and intense.

“Oh.” Madeleine replied, his voice choked.

The waitress who had been drying glasses was kneeling on the floor, holding the hand of someone trapped under the car. Suddenly, she cried out, “For God’s sake, someone do something!”

Madeleine pulled his shoulders back and straightened his back. He met the policeman’s eye.

And then he took off his suit jacket and tossed it to the side. Bending down, he gripped under the bumper of the car, grabbing at the frame and strained.

At first, nothing happened.

Slowly at first, the car began to move. Half an inch. An inch. The man next to her and one of the cops in uniform rushed in and grabbed the side and helped. And then the waitress was dragging someone from the car and on the other side, someone else was being dragged out and she heard a cop shout, “That’s it!”

They dropped the car.

The plain-clothes policeman who had addressed Mister Madeleine never moved. He stood, his eyes fastened on the older man.

The man next to her pulled his hand from hers and ran from one side of the car to the other. “Heather! Heather?” he cried.

But Heather Aster was not there. The waitress, Amy Little, and the father of the little girl, the man who had been eying her, Damien Morin, had been under the car.

Mister Madeleine put an arm around the man who had been standing next to her and pointed. He followed his finger and so did Fantine. An older woman had been tossed aside, her neck clearly broken.

The man cried out and Mister Madeleine drew the man into a hug. Standing with his arms wrapped around the sobbing man, Mister Madeleine looked over the man’s shoulder and met the gaze of the police man, his eyes sad and resigned.


	14. Post Script - Javert

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That night, Detective Javert sat at his desk and layered three copies of the Incident Report with carbon paper. Form, carbon paper, form, carbon paper, form. He carefully tapped the five layers on his desk so the three incident reports lined up precisely, and then he threaded them into the typewriter. 

Date. Time. Address. He entered the information, glancing at his notes and pecking at the keys of the typewriter. He worked slowly because he hated having to re-do a form. 

**Incident type:** Car accident with fatality

**Known Suspect:** Name: Jake Jacobson. Status: Adult, arrested. Race: white. Age: 53. Sex: Male 57 Home Address: Frontage Road, Montray. Marital status: Divorced. Occupation: Real estate agent. 

Javert stopped typing and looked at the page. When the EMTs finally arrived Mr. Jacobson had been confused and weak. He said, his words slurred and barely intelligible, that he had lost control of the car. His foot had pressed down on the accelerator and he had been unable to pick it up. 

What a load of crap, he thought. After spending time as a prison guard first for the state of California, and then in Saigon, guarding Viet Cong, he figured he had heard just about every excuse. 

**Victim:**

Javert skipped that section. There were too many for this form. He’d type up supplemental for each of them. 

**Narrative description:**

He started to type, “At approximately 4:30 PM, I was called to the scene of a car accident at a restaurant. Jake Jacobson reported that he lost control of his car. The car jumped the curb and collided at high speed with no apparent breaking into the front of the restaurant, the Sweet Tomato.”

Javert stopped typing and closed his eyes, recalling an incident in Saigon, when a jeep full of drunk sergeants at liberty had flipped their car, crashing into one of those carts that passed for a gook restaurant. He realized his hands were shaking and he opened his eyes and started typing, “The car breeched the front wall of the establishment and passed all the way into the store before coming to rest against the back wall. I arrived on the scene approximately ten minutes before the ambulance arrived. Sergeant Ramsey had already cleared many of the bystanders out to the street. I found a small crowd of approximately 20 people gathered outside the store. About half of those people had been in the restaurant when the car struck. The other half had arrived to see what the noise was about. There were about another ten people inside the store. When I entered the store, I immediately noticed that there was an older woman, who I later identified as Mrs. Heather Aster, who had been killed immediately. However, it soon became apparent that there were other victims trapped under the car.” 

Javert stopped typing again and stared at his paper. Watching the factory owner, Mr. Madeleine, had been eerie. For a moment, he had been standing in the yard at San Quentin again, watching Jack Valjean as he lifted up a ridiculous amount of iron, enough iron that the bar was bending under the strain. What had it been? 400? 500? 600 lbs? He could not remember. It did not matter. He remembered the anxious excitement, the holding of breath, the rustle of the exchange of money. 

Shaking his head he looked back at the paper. It was nonsense, all of it. He had spoken to Mr. Madeleine after the event. He had been in the restaurant to buy pizza for some charity event at church. Mr. Madeleine was like that. Unlike most black people around here, Mr. Madeleine was as squeaky clean as they came. He ran a good business, he paid people good wages, he donated absurd amounts to charity. He was a good man. 

Plus, surely Mr. Madeleine had not actually lifted a car? It didn’t happen that way. Now that he thought about it some more, he remembered Ramsey helping. And that old guy, George Aster, because he thought his wife was under the car, and probably some others. Nodding his head, Javert re-read what he had written, cracked his knuckles, and continued to type.


	15. Post Script - Madeleine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was a few days after the accident. Mister Madeleine pulled the door of the hospital lobby open and stepped in. He had just come from church. It had been a somber service after the death of Heather Aster, and the parishioners had taken a special collection in her honor. 

He found Joan and Alice in the lobby with little Julie Morin. Little Julie was in Alice’s lap and they were looking at a book. “How are you doing?” he asked the young women. 

Joan stood when Mr. Madeleine came up to them. She had a bandage on her cheek. “We’ll be back to work Monday, sir,” she said. 

“No, no,” Madeleine said. “That is not what I meant. Please, take as much time as you need. I meant…” 

Alice looked up at him. “Getting back to work would be good for us,” she said. 

“Well, I’ll be glad to have you back then,” Madeleine replied. Madeleine looked at the little girl in Alice’s lap and then dropped down on one knee. “How are you doing, little lady?” he said gently. 

Julie did not look up from her book. Madeleine met Alice’s eyes and Alice shook her head. Madeleine looked back at the girl. “What is this?” he asked her. 

Julie looked at him. “What?” 

“This!” he said, pulling a coin from her hair. He held it out to her. It was a shiny Kennedy half dollar. She met his eyes, with an uncertain smile on her face. “Take it,” he urged gently. And she took it. 

Madeleine smiled at her. He straightened his tie as he stood and said, “I must go.”

“See you later, Mister Madeleine,” Joan said. 

“Thank you,” Julie said. 

He walked towards the ICU where Damien Morin was fighting for his life. The ICU itself was new. Just a year ago, an anonymous donation to the hospital had allowed the hospital to gut and refurbish the entire floor, filling it with cutting edge instruments and monitors and top notch people. Madeleine had gone to the grand opening. All of the city’s leaders had been invited. 

Madeleine found Eleanor asleep in a chair by his bedside. Machines blinked and hissed and beeped around Damien, who was unconscious under a tangle of tubes. A nurse came over. “Can I help you, sir?” 

Madeleine shook his head. “No,” he said. “No. I was just coming to visit, but perhaps another time.” 

The woman pressed her lips together. “Are you a friend?” she asked. 

“No, no. I was at the restaurant. Where it happened.” 

“Oh. Well. I’m sorry, sir. You will have to leave.” 

Madeleine reached in his jacket and pulled out an envelope. “This is for Ms. Morin. When she wakes.” 

The nurse took the envelope. “I’ll see that she gets it.” 

“Thank you.” 

Madeleine turned and walked down the hall toward the elevator. One more stop. Amy Little, the waitress, had come out of it with two broken legs. She was three floors up from the ICU.

He walked down the hall and came to the room that Alice was in. Alice was in the bed by the door. Her legs were in casts and they were propped up on the bed. She was sitting up, talking with another of the waitresses, Liz Carter. He knew them both and they knew him because his apartment was over the restaurant and he often bought dinner there on his way home. They both looked up when he came in. “Mister Madeleine!” Liz said in surprise. 

Madeleine paused in the door. “Hello,” he said. 

“What are you doing here?” Alice asked. 

“I just came to see how you were doing.” 

“Well, I’m not going anywhere soon, but the doctors say I should heal up.” 

“Good to hear!” he said. 

“I hear I have you to thank for that.”

He shook his head. “No,” he said. “Not me.”

Liz laughed. “Mister Madeleine!” she admonished. Liz turned to Alice, “I am telling you, Alice. He picked the car up. Right off you!” 

Alice looked at Madeleine and smiled at him. “Well, whatever happened, thank you.” 

His hand was shaking as he reached into his suit pocket and pulled out another envelop. “Here,” he said. “Hope you are back on your feet, soon.” 

Alice took the card from him. He shoved the hand in his pocket. He should get back to work, he thought to himself.


	16. Narrator

The year is 1976 and in the California city of Montray-by-the-Sea, Heather Aster and Damien Morin died shortly before Easter. George, Heather’s husband of 37 years, buried her in the graveyard next to St. Martha’s. Eleanor and Julie Morin had Damien cremated and they scattered his ashes in San Francisco Bay. While they are on the boat, Julie spots a killer whale breeching and for years, she will wonder if that whale was, in fact, her father, saying goodbye. 

The year is 1976 and Jack Jacobson is diagnosed with multiple sclerosis after the incident in the car. It was not the first time he had an episode, nor will it be the last. The DMV revokes his license and a jury finds him guilty of involuntary vehicular manslaughter. He is be sentenced to three years in prison. A year from now, the new mayor of Montray will intervene on his behalf and his sentence will be commuted to work-release with 500 hours of community service. 

The year is 1976 and Liz Carter recovers from bilateral fractures. When she is released from the hospital, she discovers that a private fund had been anonymously set up to pay her medical and educational expenses. She takes the balance and leaves Montray. San Francisco State admits her. Fifteen years from now, when the Rodney King decision comes down, she will be a Ph.D. student at UCLA finishing up her dissertation in political science. 

The year is 1976 and Mister Madeleine is transforming Montray. A year from now, when the existing mayor abruptly departs, members of his church will urge him to participate in the special election, which he will win easily. The thought that he may be anyone other than the face he presents to the world does not cross anyone’s mind, except for Detective Javert who will continue to puzzle over Mayor Madeleine for several more years before he is driven to action.

The year is 1976 and Fantine has a good job in Montray but her heart is in a small town to the south. At night, she stares at the framed picture she has of her daughter and re-reads the most recent letter from the family who is caring for her. Then she quietly counts her money and calculates how long it will be before she can send for Cosette. Soon, Cosette will be old enough to be in school. Surely, then, she can make it work.

**Author's Note:**

> This story is loosely based on [this news story](https://www.bostonglobe.com/metro/2016/03/02/newton-police-mourn-following-restaurant-crash/brllfOC3fk99rQA9UnWU3I/story.html). Dialog between Javert and Madeleine was adapted from Hapgood. 
> 
> A huge thank you to esteven for beta-ing and and Chrissy for arting and to both of them for believing in me and this story.


End file.
